


The Name of the Game

by Sherry_CS



Series: The Aftermath [3]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-10-29 17:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20800457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherry_CS/pseuds/Sherry_CS
Summary: Following The Promise and The Aftermath, Mikhail and Feilong continue on getting to the bottom of Chernobog, and how they feel toward each other... (Well, mainly Feilong).





	1. Chapter 1

Some people are of the opinion that a man’s character is best shown when he’s playing a game. Mikhail used to be one of the those people. Now, the love of his life, his star, his rose, his own private assassin with velvet for skin and silk for hair, is overturning that belief like he has done with many a given rule in Mikhail’s life.

Feilong is a fierce competitor and total control freak in life, but on the card table he’s like a gracious hostess, a princess with one too many gem to lose. His top priority seems to be to entertain, not to win. Well, it’s probably understandable under the circumstances. He and Feilong had just signed off a cooperative on one of his most profitable casinos in Macau, thrown a huge party in celebration of it, and now they are playing in said casino to show off their newly formed alliance (although Mikhail would much prefer to show off something else). It would be safe to say some hospitality is in order.

They are into the river round of a game of TH, and have so far driven everyone out. Feilong peeks at his own hand: triple aces, a seven, and a two. He puts them down. Mikhail reads his cards, then likewise puts them down with a tiny smirk upon his lips. “I call it.” The blonde announces.

Feilong observes him. “Been having a lucky streak tonight, Mikhail?”

“Been having one all my life.”

“That’s rather cocky of you, don’t you think?”

“Are you trying to chitchat yourself out of this round, my beautiful friend?” Mikhail sits back in his seat and picks up his half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray. He drags it out, the smoke blurring his widening smile. When he puts it down, he plays with the gold ring on his little finger a little.

Liu Feilong squints his eyes. “You know what? I think your lucky streak is going to end tonight.”

Mikhail leans forward. “Oh yeah? What makes you say that? Triple aces?”

Feilong’s face betrays no emotion at the words, instead, he stacks up a few chips and slides them forward. “Your 8 000, and I raise 25. Let’s see if Lady Fortune has a price.”

“In for a penny in for a pound, huh? As they say.” Mikhail starts to play with his gold ring again but stops. He reaches out for his stacks, “your 25,” he continues stacking them up, “and I raise you sixty thousand dollars. Now let’s play some cards.”

They both take a moment eyeing each other down. Then Feilong concludes, “I call it,” revealing his cards: triple aces.

Mikhail fans out his. “Club flush. Thank you very much.”

He’s collecting the chips when Feilong leans forward a tiny degree and says, “wait, are you trying to pull wool over my eyes?”

“What?” Mikhail, surprised, does not stop his motions though.

“Are you blind? Is that a club?”

Everyone crowds in to see. True enough, one of the clubs is, in fact, a spade.

The table is still for a moment, then Mikhail bursts out laughing. “Well I’ll be damned! Never in my 30 years of compulsive gambling has that happened! Imagine you didn’t see it! Just imagine! Oh man, the shame would’ve cured me of gambling, perhaps along with a few more vices, and my shrink would pay each and every one of you guys out of her own pocket out of sheer gratefulness! Jeez, here, Feilong, your chips back. The game was yours.”

With a loud clatter, he pushes the chips back. All the other men are laughing with him, Feilong only smiles a little in acquiesce. He flips a chip in the air then catches it between two fingers. “Thanks.” He looks into the blonde’s eyes and says.

—

“That was excessive.”

Later that night, lying in their king-size bed, still breathy and sweaty, Feilong declares. They booked separate rooms but ended up sleeping together most of the nights anyway.

“What was? The toe work?”

“The... that too, but I’m talking about earlier.”

“What earlier? Oh, you mean my stunt at the card table?” Mikhail rolls off the bed looking for a cigarette, wearing nothing but a wicked smile.

“Your shananigan at the card table, yes. It was utterly uncalled for, and stupid. Don’t you think people will just see right through it?”

“Ah, but did you?” Having found his cigarette pack, Mikhail scoots back to bed and tries to cuddle Feilong who moves away.

“Elementary. You show the real card, then change it when you collect the chips, right?”

“How marvellous, my dear Sherlock,” somehow the man manages to sound even cheekier in British accent, “now for the keen member of the audience, a slow replay...”

“That’s quite unnecessary.”

“You see this condom here... used, admittedly...”

All colour drains from Feilong’s face, “Mikhail, don’t you come any closer... not one step, I’m warning you...”

Crouching in the middle of the bed and driving Feilong up the headboard, Mikhail hides the condom behind his palms while locking eyes with his very agitated lover. “I can just make it disappear… like that.” He opens his palms. There’s nothing there. Then there’s a strange jingle in the air. “Wait, did you hear it?”

“Yes I hear it. Can you just get it over with? Where have you made that thing disappear into?” Feilong presses his body against the headboard. Then he hears the jingle again. It sounds very close.

“The essence of our love...” Mikhail closes the distance between him and his pristine lover on all fours like a leopard, “has morphed... become heavier... shinier... like,” he reaches a hand behind Feilong’s ear and produces —

“A key.”

From his rough hand dangles a very old-looking brass key, about the length of a fountain pen, with thick blue tassels attached to it. It looks like it’s been handed down for generations. Numerous hands have touched it, numerous pockets have held it, hanging off its designated hook on an old carpeted wall where the colours have worn off elegantly, it’s been private audience to ancient tales and passionate murmurs, borne witness to many a union or tragedy that passes incessantly within a great house, a house like that of the Arbatov’s. It’s a standing testimony to History.

Feilong lets Mikhail slide it into his palm. It’s heavy. It has that twangy metal smell. The surface has oxidized, been polished, re-oxidized and re-polished. It makes him think of those antique guns in museums. Sitting behind glass walls like placid retirees, they continue to emanate malice and precision.

“What’s it for?” He allows for a certain tenderness in his voice.

“My mansion in Moscow, where we’re headed tomorrow.”

“We are?” Feilong looks at Mikhail inquiringly who’s crept up his naked torso in the meantime. How crafty of him. If he hadn’t shown him this priceless piece of antique (and everyone knows Liu Feilong LOVES antiques), this enquiry would have taken place with a knife against the man’s throat. Now, he’s going to ask it _nicely_. He grabs a fistful of blonde hair and _yanks_. “How come I didn’t know.”

“It was you who asked.”

“I did not.”

“Did too!”

“Did not.”

“Did too! You asked me to keep you posted on any information I force out of those Chernobog assholes, didn’t you?”

“Tell it to me right here. I’ll know if you’re lying or withholding information.”

“But you see, the thing is… let go, would you, baby? Unless you wanna see a bald head go down on you in the future?” The instant horror of it actually makes Feilong loosen his grip. “You see… I can’t. Force information out of them.”

Feilong knits his brows in sheer incredulity.

“These guys are Russian. Ex-military. Some of them have even worked with us before. They know our tricks. The usual ‘beat’em scare’em’ routine just don’t work with them.”

“Surely you’ve got more finesse than that.” Feilong lets go of Mikhail’s hair completely and moves off the bed, making toward the bathroom. Mikhail follows and is promptly shut out the door. The shower runs within.

“But wouldn’t you like to handle the interrogation yourself? That way you’d be _sure_ I’m not lying or withholding information. Besides...” Mikhail leans against the door. For a moment, he stops trying to be funny, or charming, or anything but himself at all. “Moscow is beautiful this time of year. Most people only associate Russia with ice, snow, winter, in fact it’s all kinds of magnificent all around the year. Summer. Spring. Autumn. I can’t even decide. You ought to see it.”

The shower runs a while longer. Then it stops. Then it’s silence on both sides of the door, and silence is not something Mikhail Arbatov handles very well. He tries the door and finds to his great surprise that it isn’t locked. He slides it open.

Feilong is in his bathrobe, seated in front of a giant mirror and tending to his voluptuous mane with practiced ease, applying essential oil to it, massaging it into the body, pressing out the water with a towel.

Mikhail stands just inside the door, enraptured. “Don’t throw that comb away. I might masturbate to it later just thinking it touched your hair.”

Feilong eyes him with honest disgust, then looks back into the mirror. “Yoh and Tao are coming with me.”

This takes Mikhail a beat to register. “So you are coming with me to Russia?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Although Yoh will surely bring extra men and there’s just no way stopping him. There is a part of me that doesn’t want to leave this whole Chernobog business in hands other than mine... Stop right there, Arbatov. You have not taken a shower and you never revealed where that... un-hum... thing went.”

Mikhail stops half way into his ambush.

“It was in your hair.”

“What?!”

“Hahaa! Got you, didn’t I?”

“Mikhail Arbatov, I swear I’m gonna kill you!”

Feilong rises to attack but finds himself swinging into an awaiting embrace. The Russian’s arms are strong, warm, hairy, and above all, inescapable.

“Love me now, kill me later, baby.” He whispers these words onto the man’s exquisite face which twists a little with wicked interest.

“You never stop giving me the reasons.” The elusive Baishe says, his arms creeping up the Russian’s chest and winding their way around that white neck, clamping down on it a touch too tightly.

That night, Mikhail did not ask: for which?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The card scene takes inspiration from David Mamet’s 1987 film House of Games. 
> 
> The title is taken out of Air Supply’s song: ‘Making Love out of Nothing at all’ — 
> 
> I know all the rules and then I know how to break’em  
And I always know the name of the game.  
But I don’t know how to leave you and I’ll never let you fall  
And I don’t know how you do it,  
Making love out of nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The Arbatov estate is a vast expanse of stonework wonder in the suburbs of Moscow, surrounded by acres of plush green and mellowed by the Oka River running through it. The dusk painted its austere white stone surfaces a delectable gingerbread. Seen from the helicopter, this triple-winged giant complete with a forest for back garden and its own small village looks more like a palace than someone’s country residence. With its distinct Russian Revival style, the mansion is likely to have been built in the 19th century and thus have withstood two World Wars and multiple revolutions. 

The chopper lands on the pad. Mikhail and Feilong step off of it, the Chinese descending gracefully from the passenger side in a crisp summer suit while the Russian kind of tumbles out of his pilot's seat, tucking his shirt (suede, in summer?) and fumbling with the belt. Who knows what happened on that jet? Mikhail flew it personally. Their subordinates had arrived before them.

Now one of Mikhail’s men is running toward them. He runs straight up to Mikhail and whispers in his ear. The young boss knits his brows. 

“What’s the matter?” Feilong walks up but keeps a professional distance. Mikhail turns around. “Looks like someone's started the party without us.” His expression is half impatience, half glee, like a child who is about to be given a tour of Hell and he just can’t wait to get to it. The guy wears delirium like second skin, Feilong thinks to himself and strides ahead. 

—

The cause of Mikhail’s displeasure is standing at the top of the grand stairs in the middle of the two-story hall with his back to the entrance, hands in pockets, apparently absorbed by the painting before him and oblivious to the various guns training at him from all directions. Said cause is dressed in an impeccable black suit. The evening sun does nothing to sweeten his stoic silhouette. 

“Asami Ryuichi.”

“Mikhail Arbatov.”

“You got a reason to be here?”

“As much as you do.”

“You mean you too are taking your lover on a summer vacation on the pretext of work? Where is he? I don’t see that little pet of yours.”

Asami turns fully around and descends the stairs. “Don’t pretend, Arbatov. I know you have the remainder of that distasteful organisation called Chernobog. You didn’t think you could have all the information to yourself, did you?” 

“They are my trophy. Not yours.”

“Riding into the enemy’s camp on a wooden horse does not make you a general, it makes you an impertinent child. Tell me, Mikhail, does your back still hurt?”

“It’d stopped hurting long ago and now I’m rather proud of the scars, thank you very much. By the way, how did you find this place?”

Asami gestures around. “It’s not exactly unassuming, is it?” 

Now they are standing face to face with Feilong in the middle. “Asami, go back to Japan,” says Mikhail, “there’s no place for you in Russia, unless you’ve come for the vodka.” 

“Unlike you, I don’t get drunk on things so easily.” Asami glances at Feilong quickly, the first time he’s looked at him so far, then turns back to Mikhail. “Who do you think gave you the coordinates?” 

“So you weren’t nudity-camping on an insect-infested island after all. I wonder where my men got the wrong information...” 

“You and your men…”

“Both of you, stop it.” Feilong announces and the hall goes quiet. “Asami, if you want to be in the game you’ll have to earn it. Anybody could’ve got those coordinates. We both lost men while you stood afar, watching. You got your goods back, that’s as far as your chips take you, I’m afraid.”

Asami raises one brow. “Someone has been at the cards, I see.”

“And Roulette too, but do you really wish to talk about that? Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I will have to unpack.” With that, Feilong sweeps away toward where Yoh stands waiting. Although he probably has as much as a comb to unpack. 

Mikhail watches as Feilong moves away, then makes for the stairs. “Asami, to think if you were my friend, I’d have invited you.” Turning the corner before ascending the second floor, he waves for the shooters to lower their guns. “Relax. Mr. Asami Ryuichi is our guest. For now.” He winks and is seen no more. 

—

The commotion started shortly after midnight. Down in the back yard leading into the dark forest, torches are lit. Six chairs are placed in a row, soon to be occupied by six miserable souls. A single stool is placed by the edge of the forest where light and darkness meet, tall and heavy and menacing, overlooking the six chairs. The stage is set, now enter the players. Six heavy-set prisoners, visibly worse for the wear, are marched out by six equally burly men. Their mouths un-taped, the prisoners keep shouting and cursing along the way, all the time fighting against their guards. One window is lit, then another, then another, until the whole house is awake, the lights illuminating the small stage down below. 

Asami has stood by his window, waiting. In the dawn when man’s body temperature is the lowest is the perfect time for interrogation. He makes himself a coffee and watches from his box seat. 

Mikhail and Feilong appear from different parts of the house. Mikhail is in his bathrobe and slippers while Feilong is in the suit he wore for dinner, with Yoh following his master discreetly, as usual. The six prisoners are forced into their seats. Mikhail leans against a tree and lights a cigarette. Feilong paces around to seat himself on the stool. 

The evening is mellow and quiet. No breeze. No chirping of the birds. Not a grass moves. 

From Asami’s vantage point, it appears Feilong gave the prisoners a little speech which they reacted fiercely to, then the real show began. Under the scrutinising eyes of the entire Arbatov house, Feilong strips his own cravat and with it, he covers his own eyes. He nods toward Yoh, who starts the timer and motions for the first prisoner to be released. 

Hesitant at first, the big guy starts attacking in no time. Free of confines, he attacks like a blind bear fresh out of its cage, yet despite his fierce moves, he cannot get within an arm’s reach of Feilong’s body. Seconds tick by, minutes drag away as this comical fight goes on, wearing the prisoner’s strength out and his sanity thinner and thinner until by the end of it — five minutes, Asami checks his watch — the former soldier is throwing himself onto the ground, pounding the earth and howling out his frustration.

Feilong takes down his blindfold and takes a gun from Yoh, handing it to the second prisoner, butt first. 

The prisoner is reluctant to take it but with a barrel pressing against the back of his head, he really doesn’t have a choice. 

“Talk. Or shoot.” Asami reads Feilong’s lips. “That’s the deal, remember?” From where he’s standing, it seems the Dragon is smirking. 

The goon takes the gun. He raises it, hands trembling, toward his fallen comrade. One shot, and the guy falls face first into the dirt. A flock of birds flutter out of the forest, rising toward heaven knows where. Dropping the gun, the executioner falls to his knees, smothers his face in his hands and screams silently. 

Like a silent dance, like in a trance, Feilong covers his eyes for the second time, raising a hand, signalling for his prisoner his last chance of revenge. The mad animal springs to his feet, lunging toward his captivator with unparalleled vehemence. He moves so fast, with such force, like a giant polar bear protecting his cub. The Dragon moves however with the same grace and agility as before, as if he’s gliding under water instead of dodging on plain ground. He counterattacks but very little, aiming to wear out his opponent, slow-baking him to the desired result. 

When it comes to interrogation, there is just no one like Liu Feilong.

All of a sudden, the prisoner changes course in mid-attack and throws himself in the direction of Mikhail, picking up the gun he dropped earlier. Even with closed eyes, Feilong senses it immediately and swoops toward the attacker when — 

Bam. A bullet fires through the head of the prisoner. One clean shot through his temples. By Yoh. 

The whole while Mikhail just kept smoking his cigarette. Apparently he had no intention to dodge or to fire, even though he held his own silver Colt in hand the whole time. What is he so assured of? How much of it is just a show? Asami has to wonder. Apparently you just cannot approach the young bear like a normal human being (well, as normal as crimelords go.)

Feilong takes down his blindfold, fires two more shots through the attacker just to make sure. Then, where Asami can’t see, he says something to Mikhail who reacts with that oh so cheeky smirk of his, laughing like they are in some sort of amusement park, enjoying a tease that no one else understands. Asami crushes his own cigarette in the ashtray. His coffee is cold. He does not intend to make another one. 

Each attacker brings forth renewed zeal, each ends up executing, executed. The night is wearing thin. The blood and the desperation are starting to soak through. Finally — 

The last prisoner, unable to fire the shot, spills a name. The man he tried to save springs up from the ground, furious, takes the proffered gun and kills him. When he tries to kill himself, his bullet is outraced by one from Mikhail’s Colt. 

The interrogation is over. Yet instead of relief, a new shroud of dread spreads over the yard. The young mafia leader is still for a moment, then he just turns to leave, without thanking Feilong, without waiting for anyone. The Dragon watches him go, then straightens his suit and exits the way he came.

The lights go out one after another. Mikhail’s men remain behind to sort out the mess. By morning, this will all feel like a dream, not a drop of blood to be seen, not a speckle out of place in this estival paradise. Yet something did change. Something in that name obviously stirred something up. Asami closes the curtain, and goes to make himself another coffee. He has work to do, before the morning light leaves nothing hidden in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This present tense thing is killing me! I started out on the wrong foot and am now too far gone to go back. It changes everything. 
> 
> I realise my A Complicated Christmas series and The Aftermath series can actually fall into one storyline, a complete AU to Canon. Too bad they are written in different languages. Even Four Lucid Dreams can fit into this universe fine.
> 
> Just babbling.


	3. Chapter 3

The early morning light dusts over the forest like a spider web made of diamond. The air carries on an invisible silver tray the aroma of birch, of wet grass, and of that special pre-rain trepidation. Tao is running ahead of Mikhail and Feilong, carrying a wicker basket as big as half of his body.

“If you pay close attention, you can smell the mushrooms too,” says Mikhail in a smooth whisper that is almost uncharacteristic of him, “the good ones are kinda creamy, the bad ones are bitter.”

The trail is muddy and slippery, the grass a dark dewy green. It is going to rain very soon. Mikhail is carrying his own basket and sorting through the bush with his mushroom knife. “We say in Russia, if you’re normal, you hunt for mushrooms. To say you’re a mushroom-hunter is like saying you’re a pizza-eater in America — you just do it.”

“The normal part certainly doesn’t count,” says Feilong, as he imitates Mikhail in scourging the mossy ground for bizarre-looking fungi. 

They walk silently side by side with Tao sprinting ahead, cutting and collecting like a pro already. The kid was asleep shortly after they arrived and doesn’t have a clue what happened during the night — Feilong made sure of that. He and Mikhail, however, didn’t catch much sleep last night. 

Tao comes running back. “Hey! Come take a look! I found something!”

“Yeah? What is it, big boy?” Mikhail beams as if on cue, striding after the kid. 

Growing in clusters at the foot of a pine tree are small white round-capped mushrooms whose surface is an even scale of micro needles. Growing not far from these is another group of very similar-looking white mushrooms, only without the needles. “Are they both edible? Which ones should I take?” Tao holds his knife at the ready, itching to claim his first exotic quarry of the day. 

Mikhail takes the knife from Tao’s hand and demonstrates cutting one of those needle-covered round-caps. “These are called puffballs. They’re completely edible, great with a bit of butter. We can have them for breakfast later. These, however...” Moving on to the ones with smooth white instead of studded skin, he only shifts them a little with the tip of his knife, “are called death angels. They are deadly poisonous.”

“But they look almost identical!” Tao claims as he kneels to harvest more of the healthy puffballs. 

“They do, yet they are worlds apart in nature,” adds Mikhail as he straightens. 

He can sense Feilong wanting to say something. He waits, but his companion only slips round behind him to venture deeper into the woods. Feilong’s velvety voice calls for him from farther ahead, “these orange thingys, they look edible.”

“Igor Shpilenok, little foxes, those are called,” Mikhail treads up toward Feilong, “very homely, very versatile. Makes a great salad, sauté, or even ice cream, have your heard about that?” 

“No I haven’t,” admits Feilong as he kneels to harvest, taking care not to soil his knees. Mikhail squats next to him and crops the little fungi at practised speed. 

They farm together for a silent while, then Feilong broaches the subject. “The name. Do you think it’s coincidental?” “Is anything coincidental? I’m sorry, my love, I didn’t mean to be brusque.” “You apologise to me once again I’m going to cut your throat open with this blunt knife, you hear me?” “I love you too my dear.” 

Finding himself at a sudden loss for words, Feilong dusts his knees and rises up. “Come on, Tao, we have to get back. It’s going to rain soon.” He waves toward his protégé. 

“I love mushroom-hunting in the rain.” Mikhail catches up after having rounded up the little foxes nicely. 

“Unlike you, I'm not a fan of rain-bathing thank you very much. I’m not a baboon.”

“Not if his organisation’s name is Chernobog and not if mine is Mikhail, no. To answer your earlier question,” swerves the baboon abruptly. 

“Samael. Challenger of Adam, poison of God, angel of death, blind commander of the demons...”

“Snake-rider, sea-divider, eye-wearer. Once a counterpart of Michael, he now stands before him, Accuser and Destroyer,” adds Mikhail with a grand mocking gesture, “the war between him and Michael will not be completed until the end of days.” He finishes with an impertinent rolling of the eyes. 

“I must say, this trip has brought more cultural delights than I had expected.” 

“Yeah, my family can be morbidly obsessed about what’s above and beyond sometimes as my back can well testify.” 

They are reaching the edge of the forest by now. The sky has taken on a gunmetal blue. A thunder roars in the distant heavens. A shaft of light reaches the clearing, illuminating their visages and the reality they are facing. The rain is coming. 

Feilong gives his basket to Tao. “Tao, would you bring these to the kitchen? Mr. Arbatov and I have business to talk.”

“Sure, Feilong-sama. See you at breakfast?” Tao takes all three baskets and asks, wide-eyed, before he leaves. 

“I’ll see you then.” Feilong smiles and the kid gallops away. 

The two leaders of the Underworld stroll toward the front of the house. “Do we? Have business to talk?” Mikhail inquires, keeping his hands busy so he wouldn’t just reach out and take Feilong’s hand all of a sudden. 

“Yes. I want you to know that whoever wins out in this family feud of yours, I will form an alliance with him.” Feilong speaks calmly, in a neutral tone. 

“Of course,” replies Mikhail, “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“To think this person was able to stir up such commotion in the Underworld across countries, I suggest you take him very seriously.” 

“I will. If I’m guessing right, this Samael fellow might be a lost heir to the Arbatov line, a half-brother, or hell, even a brother of mine. If that’s true, then we’ll have between us a very interesting war indeed.” Mikhail concludes, mocking the name Samael with dramatic quotation marks. 

They’ve rounded up to the front gate. Just as they are about to go in, their other guest comes pacing out, followed by his secretary carrying what little luggage that came with him. 

“Leaving so soon, Asami Ryuichi? I was just starting to enjoy your charming company.” Mikhail speaks with that unique brand of annoying-ness of his. 

“Business calls. There occurred some kind of dispute within the house last night, or am I mistaken? I was so fast asleep I only caught half of it.” Asami poses like a statue and curiously, he speaks like one too. 

Mikhail ascends the stairs so he stands eye to eye with Asami. “Oh I apologise for the poor hospitality on behalf of the house. But you see, it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

House, half, dispute. Sure enough, Asami has some idea about what’s going on regarding the Arbatov name and the current state of affairs, though how he knows remains a mystery. Feilong and Mikhail are both taking a mental note on getting to the bottom of this. 

Asami turns to face Feilong. “You’re staying?”

Gesturing toward the thundering sky, Feilong replies, “it is no fit weather to fly.”

“I see.” Asami descends the stairs, coming toward the black-haired beauty in the pale sunlight. “You can fly with me if you want. I can make a stop at Hong Kong.”

Feilong stares at him, twin pairs of onyx eyes searching the depths of each other. A flash of astonishment, a flicker of doubt, a crest of passion. And then... nothing. The night sea whispers its invitation. You dive for answers, but all you dig up is dredge. 

“Thank you, Asami, but the sky won’t just clear because you are flying through it. I would suggest you fly some other time too but who am I to dissuade you? Goodbye.” Having said this, Feilong passes Asami and makes straight for the house, his banner of black hair reflecting the sunlight like a lightening made of satin. 

Mikhail is waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He takes Feilong’s hand who, surprisingly, does not swat it away. With a triumphant smile, Mikhail looks up to call after his exiting Japanese rival. “Oh and Asami,” the yakuza turns back round with no visible change of countenance, “Yuri spoke Japanese, did you know that? I might come talk to you about that some time. Goodbye!” He waves, then disappears into the house with his Dragon love. 

The first drizzles of rain are sprinkling down on the yard. Kirishima opens an umbrella for his boss. Inside, the aroma of mushrooms cooking is wafting out on humid air. 

Just like the Russian said, the good ones are kinda creamy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Divergence: Mikhail is NOT the bastard son of the Arbatov house.


End file.
